A Captain's Legacy
by TheNightShadows
Summary: Christopher Pike meets Winona Kirk while writing his dissertation on the U.S.S. Kelvin. He promises to save her husband's memory. Twenty years later, her son saves his life. (One-Shot)


**A Captain's Legacy**

Riverside, Iowa certainly isn't the nicest place Chris has ever been, but there's a Kirk here he wants to talk to. Nice or not, Chris has been trying to meet Kirk for almost a year now, and just because he hasn't been invited doesn't means he's leaving empty handed.

 _Now Alpha Centauri_ , Chris thinks, walking up to the old-fashioned diner, _that's a fine place to be this time of year._

The paint peels off the exterior, and Chris doesn't think anyone's cared to clean the windows since World War III. The sign hanging on the door reads: Closed. A screen covered door does little to keep out the flies. Chris pries it open, uniform boots squeaking against the wood. Two fans swing overhead, circulating hot air. A waiter leans against the bar. He doesn't notice Chris at first, too busy flirting with the bartender. Chris pulls out the photograph from his jacket pocket and tries not to let his hopes soar too high. He's had false calls before. This may not be it.

"Well, look at you, Mr. Starfleet," the bartender whistles, eyeing Chris's uniform with a lack of respect he's come to expect west of the Mississippi. "Looking for a drink?"

Chris leans on his elbows beside the waiter. "A woman, actually."

"Hmm," the waiter hums. He flicks away a mosquito from his arm. "Any woman in particular? 'Cause the only companion house nearby is one county over. We only sell food and drink here." Chris lays the photo on the bar counter and points a finger at the smiling Ensign with her arm wrapped around her husband.

"Have either of you ever seen her before?"

With a rag swung over his shoulder, the bartender squints at the picture and mutters quietly, "Hell. Should've known Winona was involved. Why else would a uniform be coming here?"

"So you know her then? Winona Kirk?" Chris tries to keep the excitement out of his voice.

The bartender turns his narrowed eyes up to Chris. "She's not in any trouble with you all, right? She said she was only taking a break."

"No, no," Chris shakes his head, "I've just been trying to contact her about some work I've been doing, and she doesn't list a permanent address in her records. Does she live nearby?" He can tell from the tension in the two workers' shoulders that they don't trust him. "Listen, I'm not here to mess anything up for anyone. I just want to talk to her. That's all, I swear."

The waiter and bartender share a look, then the bartender sighs and slides the photograph back to Chris. "She lives out in the old farmhouse, south of downtown. Just take Main Street and turn out onto the dirt road. It'll be the only thing you see for miles. Can't miss it." Chris memorizes this new information quickly, but before he can leave, the waiter calls out.

"What's your name, Mr. Starfleet? In case we need to tell the cops later," he half-jokes. Chris tucks the photograph back into his jacket pocket.

"Christopher Pike." He nods at them. "Nice meeting you both."

The waiter mock salutes Chris, and in a far better mood now than five minutes ago, Chris just laughs a little on his way out the door. Clouds cover the sun, but Chris's day just got a whole lot brighter. He pulls open the car door and starts up the engine, and just for the hell of it, he puts it on manual.

By the time he finally makes it to the old farmhouse, Chris remembers why he never drives on manual. Car met stop sign along the way, and a nice big dent sits on the bumper. Chris doesn't know exactly how he's going to explain that to Alex.

Ironically enough, the first thing Chris notices about the place is the antique motor vehicle parked out in the dust. He can't help but whistle low at the sight of it, sitting in all its beauty out in the middle of nowhere. Red, glossy paint, leather interior, the relic survives in a far better state than the house behind it. Maybe he could trade. Alex was due in for a car upgrade anyway, and Chris didn't think he'd be mad if he came dragging that one with him.

"Can I help you?" Seated on the porch steps, a skinny boy clutches his toy phaser pistol. Stars, Chris hopes it's just a toy. The owner of the phaser looks around eight or nine years old and has on the death-stare of an adult. Chris stays still, but he does wave slowly. Even if his phaser is a toy, Chris doesn't want to spook him.

"Hi, I'm Chris." The boy looks unimpressed and does not offer his own. "Do you know if Winona Kirk lives here?"

The boy raises his eyebrows. "That's my mom."

"Is that so?" Chris tucks one hand into his pocket and pulls out the photo. "Mind taking a look at this for me?" He successfully peaks the boy's curiosity. Tucking the phaser into his belt, the boy walks over and grabs up the photograph. All he does is stare. "That's your mom and dad, right?" Chris points at their faces.

"Yeah," he nods. "Where'd you get this?" Chris can see cogs turning in the boy's head that won't do well for the whole 'trust me, I'm approachable' plan.

"An old friend of your father's lent it to me. Is your mother home?" Chris asks. The boy nods. "Can you go inside and tell her Christopher Pike is here to see her?"

He shrugs. "Sure. I'm Sam, by the way." Then, without waiting for Chris to comment on his sudden declaration, Sam bounds up the porch steps and into the house. The rickety screen door slaps the frame in his wake. A small gust of wind rattles a windchime hanging from the porch's rafters, and its song accompanies the entrance of the person Chris has been looking for since he'd been assigned this dissertation.

"Can I help you?" Winona Kirk eyes him up and down from the top step. She crosses her arms and leans against the railing, and Sam sits cross legged on a bench against the wall behind her. The phaser toy is gone.

In all his thirty three years, the only other time Chris has been this nervous was on his first flight after graduation.

"Uh, Lieutenant Commander Kirk?" he clarifies.

"Yes?"

"I'm Lieutenant Christopher Pike. I called a few times these past weeks. There's some things I'd like to discuss with you." Chris takes a deep breath because if she says no, he's got no where else to turn for the answers he wants. "Is there somewhere we can talk more privately?" He flicks his gaze pointedly to Sam and returns them to Kirk. She nods and motions for him to follow. Chris takes the steps two at a time and walks two steps behind Kirk as she leads them into the house.

It smells like dust and damp wood. There are old photographs of family members. Chris stares at a candid one of George Kirk. He has a baby in the crook of one arm and is assembling a model starship with the other. "Lieutenant?" Kirk ushers him onwards when he stares too long.

"Sorry." He hurries down the long hall and stops as they reach the final door. She opens it, and when it catches on the rug inside, she gives it a good kick.

"Come on in. Sam won't give us too much trouble in here." Chris nods and looks around. It's a small office. Two bookshelfs rest in the far corner, a desk and computer on the wall to his left, and a sofa near the door. It feels cozy and nostalgic, kind of like the rest of the house, though similar to the car outside, this particular room looks much better taken care of. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you," Chris declines. He sits down on the sofa and places his bag on the floor. Kirk drags the office chair nearby and plops down onto it. "Long day?"

She smiles for the first time. "Long week. I just got back from a year long mission. Things aren't exactly …" Kirk never finishes, instead staring at a spot on the floor for a moment. "Well, you have something you wanted to talk about?"

"Yes, ma'am." He riffles through his bag, pulling out the padd that outlines his dissertation. "You see, for my dissertation assignment, I was given the _U.S.S. Kelvin_." Chris punctuates that with a long pause, allowing Kirk time to formulate a response.

Leaning back in her chair, she looses the smile and crosses her arms again. "I see."

"I understand this is a sensitive topic," Chris says in along practiced tone, "and that I should have asked beforehand, but you're a very difficult person to get into contact with. I imagine," he adds, "that's not on accident."

Kirk shakes her head. "No, it's not. I prefer privacy."

"Sure, and I respect that. All I want is to ask a few questions, and then I'll be out of your hair," Chris promises.

"I assume you've already read the reports of what happened?" Kirk asks, and Chris nods. "Then I have nothing more to say on the matter. I appreciate your coming all this way, Lieutenant, but I'm afraid I can't help you." She stands.

"Please, Commander Kirk." Chris scrambles to his feet, padd sliding onto the couch. "This is important. I need your perspective on this. I need you to tell me about your husband, and I need you to tell me what went through your mind that day. I can't get that from a report."

She stares at him with a calmness that looks so very practiced, and though he is a few inches taller than her, he sure doesn't feel that way anymore.

"My husband has been dead for five years," Kirk says in a clear voice, "and your questions aren't going to change that."

Chris straightens his shoulders and decides he can't afford to maintain objectivity in this case. "I know that. I had a friend aboard _Kelvin,_ Zachery Philipse. Only his second assignment, and he never came home." If only slightly, Kirk's posture softens. "Now I can think of worse things to do than write about him. Your ship got attacked, and two dozen people died, and they should get recognition for doing their duty in the face of the unknown. Your husband deserves to be remembered, and right now, people outside of Riverside, Iowa could care less about him."

"One student's dissertation will hardly make a difference in that." Kirk clears her throat at the end, as though to remove the emotion in her voice.

"My advisor knows people on the Global Parks Committee," Chris sits back down, sensing victory. "They're going to discuss the next list of proposals two months from now. One of those is going to be a Kelvin Memorial, right in the heart of London. I've been compiling survivor testimonies for a while now, but I didn't think it would be right without hearing from you, Commander. Hopefully, you can understand that. I think, if all goes well, the Kelvin's got a good chance of being remembered for a long time. Just give me a chance."

Kirk stares at him, her light eyes looking almost blue. "Okay." Chris fights to keep the smile off his face. "But I can't stay for long. I've got to pick up my other son from a friend's house at seven."

* * *

Chris blinks awake, and strained eyes meet a sea of white.

He feels ... floaty, which is far preferable to how he felt before. He raises a hand up to his face and sees a monitor on his wrist. The beeping of the biobed finally reaches his ears, and Chris would groan in irritation if he didn't feel so ... floaty.

"I'll take him, Chapel." Is that McCoy? Chris pulls himself up on one elbow and receives the man's patented death glare. Too bad Chris is still the Captain of this ship. Or is he? He admits to being a little muddy on that fact. "Lay back down 'fore I sick Jim on you. And trust me when I say he isn't in too great a mood at present," McCoy warns.

Chris stays where he is. "Where is he?"

McCoy crosses his arms. "Wherever he needs to be. Bridge, Engineering. Hell, I saw him a few hours trying to help repair the Science labs."

"Why?"

"Well for one, the ship's in pieces," McCoy says as though that's some long established fact. The _Enterprise_ , in pieces? Chris only just got her, and then he remembers that of course the ship is in pieces, right now the Federation might well be in pieces. "For another, he hasn't figured out how not to micromanage yet. Came in here yesterday trying to tell me how to my job." He tisks and shakes his head.

"I want to talk to him and Commander Spock," Chris orders.

"Soon as you let me examine you, sir."

Chris glares. "McCoy."

"Captain." For god's sake, since when had McCoy gotten such an attitude around him?

"Kirk's been rubbing off on you," Chris complains but settles himself down all the same. McCoy immediately seizes the opportunity, pulling out every gadget in Sickbay, or just about. After a while, Chris works up the courage to ask a question that's been nagging at him. "Is Vulcan really gone?" He hopes that was just a lie the Romulans told him during his stay on their ship.

McCoy's hand stops on his right leg for just a second, and then he continues without meeting Chris's eye. "Yeah. Nothing left."

"Earth?" he asks, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

"Safe and sound. That's where we're headed actually. Without our warp core, though, it's slow going," McCoy tells him. Chris's relief fades. "Another ship should rendezvous with us in -"

"Kirk lost my warp core?" Chris interrupts.

Chris can see the reluctant loyalty in McCoy's face when he answers. "It was for good reason, sir. We had to get out of the blackhole."

Of course. "I see."

"Yeah."

"So, when can I get out of here?" Since Kirk can't even seem to look after a warp core, Chris thinks it might be a good idea to take back the reigns, or at least hand them over to Spock. Though maybe not. If Vulcan is gone, Spock's in no condition to be running a starship. Which was probably why Kirk had been put in command in the first place. Chris could always count on Spock to make that kind of logical decision. That's why he chose him in the first place.

He almost misses the disappointed look in McCoy's eyes. "Sir, I don't think you should be out of Sickbay for the rest of the journey home."

"I feel fine." Chris waves him off.

"That's kind of the point. We've got you stabilized for the time being, but I can't do the surgery you'll need after the Romulans' ... interrogation. Sickbay's under a bit of stress after all that's happened." McCoy shifts back.

Chris takes a deep breath and keeps the panic out of his voice. "What does that mean for me?"

"For one thing, the parasite did a number on your spine. Which is why I don't want you moving around too much. It could make the situation worse than it already is."

"What does that mean, McCoy?" Chris repeats.

McCoy opens his mouth. Then he closes it. Then he opens it again. "I think there's a good chance you'll be able to walk again. But not anytime soon, Captain. I'm sorry."

* * *

"So, how long were you and your husband married for?" Chris asks after setting up the voice recorder. Not video, Kirk had requested, and Chris obliged.

Kirk crosses her legs. "Five years. We had Sam, our oldest, only a few months afterwards." She pauses. "Our ten year anniversary would've been last week. He always liked to make a big deal out of the anniversaries."

"Not you?"

"I just never understood why he always needed to measure everything," Kirk sighs. "I'm sorry. Five years. We had been married five years before George passed."

"Were they a good five years?" Chris smiles.

She looks down at her hands where no wedding band lies. "They were the happiest I've ever known. Sometimes the worst thing is knowing we won't grow old together, like we promised in our wedding vows. Knowing that we should have been able to." Chris glances down at his padd.

"And those last few weeks, aboard Kelvin. You were pregnant at the time, right?"

"With our second son, Jim."

"How were the New Years' celebrations?"

Kirk's eyes clear up a bit. "I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before, Lieutenant." She laughs for a second. "You know, I think everyone else had a much better time than I did. Being the only sober person off-duty was not the way I wanted to spend the night, but George planned the party. The Captain even swung by for a few minutes." She switches her crossed legs. "Actually, it wasn't so bad. Very early the next morning after everyone had passed out around the tables and floor, George asked me to dance. It didn't go very well, you can imagine, with a huge belly in the way and my ankles killing me. But it was nice."

"Then, on the fourth, you went into labor."

The wistful smile starts to slip. "Jim always does have the worst timing." Kirk brushes her hair behind her ear. "It seemed like it happened right when the other ship started shooting at us. George said he'd meet us in the shuttle. He was supposed to be there, but he never showed." Her top lip trembles, but Chris waits for her to continue instead of asking another question. "I guess the autopilot functions had been damaged, so he had to stay on the Bridge. Didn't tell me though. Not until it was too late."

"He wanted you to be safe."

Kirk shakes her head. "I used to be so mad at him. The first few months, taking care of the boys on my own, I think the anger was the only thing that kept me going. Now, though ... well, I'd have done the same thing, if it were me in the chair."

"The shuttle recorded your final conversation, but its been classified as private," Chris admits. "I think I were able to hear it, I might be able to -" She shakes her head.

"No. I don't mean to be rude, but no."

"I don't mean to sound insensitive, but did your husband have any last words before the ship crashed?" Chris's voice stays as careful as possible.

Kirk laces her fingers together and stays silent for almost half a minute. The quiet makes Chris want to squirm. "We had been keeping Jim a surprise, you know, not knowing the gender. We never even decided on a name. He got to know that he had another son, and we were able to pick a name together before." She sighs and looks somewhere over Chris's shoulder when she says, "And then he told me that he loved me, and then he was gone."

* * *

"Are you done?"

McCoy's eyes widen. "With the exam?" Chris nods. "Yeah, I am. But sir, maybe we should take a minute and talk about what we're going to do once we get you in a proper hospital."

"That'll be all for now, thank you." Chris gives a bit of push back in his voice, and he guesses McCoy's known him long enough now to know when he won't get anywhere. Still, he can hear the frown in McCoy's words.

"For now," he decides, crossing his arms. "I'll tell Jim you want to talk. He'll want to know you're awake. As for Spock." McCoy says no more. Chris nods in agreement. Spock can have all the time he needs. "If you need anything, just let one of the med officers know. They'll come get me if it's serious." When Chris does not respond, McCoy walks away.

He might walk again. Might. Walk. Chris has to go over that a few times in his brain before it really starts to sink in. If he can't walk, if he's sick, how can he command a starship? They'll admiral him for sure. Chris doesn't want to be an Admiral. He wants to be a Captain, flying through the stars in the flagship. This is his ship, the one who's construction he's been overseeing for almost two years. It should be him taking her home. It was supposed to be him.

Kirk sits down beside him. It takes a minute for Chris to notice, and he wonders if he fell asleep at some point between McCoy and him.

"Bones tells me you're ready to kick my ass," Kirk starts, scraping the chair over as close as he can get, "but I just told him that's your default mode."

"How's the ship?" Chris closes his eyes.

"She's going to make it home if it takes me every crewmember left aboard to get her there, sir."

Chris wants to cry. He wants to ask how many crewmembers are left. He does neither. "You shouldn't have risked it to come back for me."

"You told me to come get you," Kirk argues, and Chris just keeps his eyes closed.

"It was selfish," he barks out.

"I won't apologize for it, so don't hold your breath." Finally, Chris opens his eyes and stares at the cadet. The angry retort ready on the tip of Chris's tongue fades as he takes in the sight. Deep circles ring under Kirk's too bright eyes. His borrowed command shirt must be stained with at least three unknown liquids. Kirk's hand shakes, the way it tends to when he's had too much caffeine, where it's resting on the bed. "Bones told me that you won't be out of bed for a while."

Chris blinks away the frustration because it isn't Kirk's fault. "You'll stay in command 'till we get back," he orders.

"Aye, Captain."

That's what he wants to be, Captain Christopher Pike of the _U.S.S. Enterprise_. But Chris has an inkling that reality is about as possible as Vulcan coming back. Things have changed now.

It's time to start accepting that.

"Jim," Chris lowers his voice, "you've done a good job." He can tell Kirk doesn't exactly believe him, but that is nothing new to Chris. So he reaches out and grabs the shaking hand. "You did everything you could." Chris could tell that without looking at a single report. "And you should feel proud of that. I know that I am." Kirk's eyes are now glued to the ground.

"I don't feel very proud right now." Any other time, Chris might've said _that's a first_.

Instead, he swallows back his disappointments, smiles, and pats Kirk's hand. "Even if you can't see it today, you did a lot of good. You earned the right to sit in the captain's chair." Kirk looks up, surprised. "There's no one I'd rather have watching over this crew and this ship than you."

"You sure about that?"

The smile becomes more genuine when Chris answers. "Just don't lose the nacelles, too, and we'll be just fine."

* * *

London in the dead of winter is a fearsome place, but there's a Kirk here Chris wants to see.

He pulls his hat further down on his head and runs through the intersection. His legs pump on the pavement, and he makes it across just as the light changes. He breathes heavily, trying to reorient himself in the winding streets. Stars, he should have just taken a transporter. Still, it should be only two blocks away. Chris walks south when he should've walked north, and so it takes another fifteen minutes before he finally makes it to the Kelvin Memorial Archive.

Open to the public at all times, on all days, the archive doesn't exactly rise over the other skyscrapers, but the imagine of it remains impressive nonetheless. Maybe Chris is biased. He doesn't care. White stone, two story columns cover the entrance, and despite the cold, the doors are swung open, inviting visitors to join in the opening day celebrations.

Chris will go inside another day, when the crowds disappear. For now, he sits down on a bench across the street and observes the statue in the gardens to the side of the building.

He wonders if George Kirk would be the kind of guy to get a kick out of his likeness in limestone.

All his work, and now Chris has his PhD, the memorial, and a new assignment on the _Hawking_. With any luck, he'll be promoted in a year or two to Lieutenant Commander. The coveted Captain's chair is within reach.

And yet, despite all that is to come, Chris knows he'll always be the most proud of what he's done for the Kirks.

* * *

 **A/N: Happy Thanksgiving! I know not all of you celebrate Thanksgiving, but I do, so you are all being thanked regardless :)**

 **It's been a while since I've posted anything, so hello, also! I hope you liked this little one-shot. For anyone following the USS Enterprise stories, I promise I am writing the new one. I think it will be ready sometime early January, just based on the speed I've been going so far. This Pike story should fit into them nicely, or it can just be its own thing. Whatever floats your boat.**

 **Probably there will be another one-shot between now and then. Either way, thank you all so much for reading, and have an amazing holiday/rest of the week.**


End file.
